Your fist grips, refusing to release its hold of this fantasy, his full head of thick hair, you’re pulling firm at his mane, guiding and grinding your way toward the imagery of his perfect mouth, that sucks and tongues hungrily at your labial-split.
Your free hand returns, gripping tightly at the corner of your pillow, your head turning, twisting gently, your own tongue working inside your mouth, mirroring his motion against the tight-lipped edge of your soaking sex, finding champagne residues and savoring the decadence.
You can taste his mouth through your own saliva, the connections running lightening through your mind, plundering your memory, knowing full well how sweet your nectar tastes, and behind closed eyes you summon the image of you guiding his head, slowly, placing his lips and tongue precisely where you want them, increasing the pressure, grinding your hips against him.
You feel his tongue sliding easily across the wax-smooth surface, scooping and swallowing, his fingers probing, slipping and pressing, prizing your soaked hymen, stroking the wet walls of your open vulva.
Mimicking his movements, your tongue finds pleasure hiding inside your own mouth, and your courage and self-confidence swell knowing how freely your juices are flowing, streaming out through your swollen, sodden labia, and flooding his unquenching thirst.
“Oh-My-God!” you moan from inside, your deluged senses expanding around this myth, a chemistry overflowing with how much he wants you.
“I want your cock!” your mind murmurs as you squirm with hollow aching. His fingers and tongue competing, restless but slow, gently, rocking, sliding and nudging, edging in a little deeper, pushing you open a little wider, unhurried, his patience building agonies of primal need.
You’re breathing faster, shallower, then a gasp, your mouth opening to swallow more air, your heart beating harder, erratic rhythms, your chest rising and falling, hips grinding as your back arches, shoulders rolling, squirming, his feeding edging you closer, then easing, then pushing.
A gravel of dryness grows in your throat as all the moisture in your body flows to where the heat has grown intense.
Your mind swims against a turning tide, waves of resistance now building, and you begin to weaken with wanting to quench your growing thirst, but you don’t dare disturb the desire that’s ravaging you so deeply.
The hunger that’s urging you, eating into you, feeding between your long, lithe thighs. These sensations mustn’t stop, but you’re breathless, and here the rumors begin.
With all the obvious things in their obvious places; tingling, warm sensations beginning at the tethered base of your clit, and a tourniquet tightening inside your sex, a pressing on your chest that’s firmer now, as you focus on the forces making all this happen.
Your thighs spasm, wrapping tight around the man who hungers for you, jerking with urgent movements as you rub and rut against his formidable form.
And fuck, that feels so good, the sensation of every movement hooking into the mucus and membrane of your flesh, bone and muscle. Flexing, eclipsed only by the stealth of a stalking warning, a growing weakness, a viral fatigue, one that comes trembling through your limbs and threatens to shatter the tightness you’ve felt building.
You’re so close.